Firelight
by misstook1420
Summary: (Completed; *Slash*, WIP, Mild angst--mostly fluffy.) Bilbo’s sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo’s constant—now becoming rather paranoid—loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
1. One

-Title: Firelight  
  
-Rating: PG-13  
  
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.  
  
-Category: Romance, mild angst.  
  
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .  
  
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .  
  
---  
  
Firelight- (Chapter 1/?)  
  
Winter was Frodo's least favourite season. It was cold and harsh and hostile. Children ran in the sparse scattering of the Shire's snow for hours, returning with frostbitten pink faces. And Bag End was drafty; streams of icy air shoved their way through the hallways, passing by the warmth of fire-lit rooms. And these were the save haven for Frodo. The three most comfortable rooms in the house were his bedroom, located far back in the smial, Bilbo's master bedroom, the kitchen, and the parlour (when properly heated).  
  
All of this might have been enough to justify Frodo's persistent hate of the cold weather. But-and Frodo only recognized this subconsciously, unless something forced him to sweep out the dark corners of his mind (which wasn't uncommon when he was lost in the winter months)-the most despicable aspect of the thing was the loneliness. Up in the large house where Frodo now lived, the sense of isolation was penetrating. Thin, chilly winter air seemed to magnify this.  
  
Now, Frodo was not completely alone: Bilbo and he would eat dinner together, go over old tales . . . spend time together, but Bilbo seemed a part of Bag End, and therefore, didn't count as company. He was family. And rather aloof himself, at that.  
  
Frodo didn't think that anything could change his contempt toward the winter.  
  
---  
  
It was the middle of Afteryule and Frodo was in a most glum mood. The lengthy tale of Turin was stretched out before him on a glossy, dark brown desk in the study. It was rather difficult to follow, too, for it consisted of musty old Elvish books with pages lost, a variety of leaflets- either newly written scraps made by himself and Bilbo, or brittle yellowed parchments. All of it quite disorganized and confusing. Why couldn't Turin have kept a diary, really?  
  
Frodo sighed. Part of the clump of overcast sky must have fallen back, revealing the sun, and she thrust a bland white light through a layered lace curtain on the circular window. A harsh white light.  
  
Whenever Frodo neared even the slightest relief from the cold, edged a fraction toward contentment, the weather seemed to remind him that it *was* still winter, and that he had what seemed like Ages to endure it. Taunting him.  
  
He tried to concentrate on Turin for the present, but began to fail miserably when an obscure craving for tea made itself known. Specifically, lemon and honey tea. From the cupboard to the right of the stove. Behind the spices. Where Sam had stowed them for some unknown reason.  
  
Strange, how things tended to preoccupy Frodo. Preventing him from tying together the loose ends in an Elvish translation, or what have you. And now the *tea* was tempting him as well.  
  
---  
  
He had made his way into the glowing kitchen. Just outside it, in the hall, a rich aroma flooded past his nostrils and through his soul. Something delicious. And warm. He peered through the round doorway before sliding into the room. He was met with a pile of dough on one of the counters, a half set table, and a stout black pot bubbling on the stove. Full of that steaming . . . something.  
  
He took an inquisitive step nearer. Urged some of the steam to him with a tentative hand and inhaled the scent. But before any recognition could register, a hand fell onto his shoulder lightly.  
  
"Mind you don't burn yourself, Mr. Frodo."  
  
*Sam*? Samwise Gamgee was cooking for them? Well, that certainly settled that: it *was* something delicious. Frodo thought to ask exactly what, but failure to respond to Sam's warning could mean a conversation passed by. Frodo was bored, and a bit starved for company, even if he wouldn't acknowledge that. And besides, he liked Sam. He liked talking to him. Despite all of their differences, Sam never failed to amaze him with his seemingly perfect understanding of Frodo. It could've been Frodo's imagination of course; that had taken to overreacting at this time of year. Winter.  
  
"I won't," he replied.  
  
Sam shifted his weight and regarded Frodo reproachfully. He sighed. "You still shouldn't be hanging about the stove, and all, sir. Not sayin' that you're clumsy or anythin', but-"  
  
Frodo cut him off: "What is it you're making, anyway?"  
  
"A stew. Just a plain stew. Mum insisted it was a family recipe, but I have my doubts, seeing as I've had it at the Dragon, and at parties and the like."  
  
Frodo laughed. "Well, is it good?"  
  
"Why would I be making it for you if it weren't?"  
  
"Hm." Frodo withdrew to the aforementioned cupboard and began digging through it for the tea. Sam produced a thin wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. A languid silence descended onto the kitchen.  
  
"It's lovely in here," remarked Frodo. "Warm. I hate winter."  
  
"I know, sir. I do too. Can't be out and about in the garden what with all the frosts," said Sam.  
  
"Yes, that too. But it's mostly. . ." he trailed off. "Well, never mind, Sam. I'm sorry you have to endure it as well." Frodo rummaged through another cupboard. "Why did you come up?"  
  
"Well, to cook for you, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"You didn't have to. It's freezing out; you could've stayed home with your family, in the cozy living room I'm sure you have."  
  
Sam didn't answer, and Frodo finally gave up on conversation. Finding that locating tea really was-as he was discovering-a challenge.  
  
"I think it's ready," said Sam, half to himself.  
  
"Shall I set the table? Or something?"  
  
"No, that's all right, sir. Just keep looking for . . . er, whatever you're looking for. Sure you don't need some help?" he offered.  
  
"No, no. I'll find it." Frodo closed the current cupboard firmly as if punishing it and moved on to the next one. "Tea, by the way," he added.  
  
"Oh, the kind you put honey in. And lemon. I've rearranged the teas, they're all in this one, over here." He pulled open a cabinet on the other side of the room, then turned his attention to the dough waiting on a counter.  
  
"Thank you," said Frodo. He reached his hand inside the cabinet and found the tea instantly, which was mildly annoying. He put a kettle on the spot formerly housing Sam's wonderful-smelling stew.  
  
"Frodo! Oh, where *have* you gotten to? Frodo? Ah! Hullo, Sam." Bilbo strode into the kitchen, wearing a rather urgent expression.  
  
"What's wrong, Uncle?"  
  
"Nothing-nothing, really. I've got a pressing errand in Tookland. I'll have to be setting off as soon as possible. You'll be all right for a few days?"  
  
"Oh. All right . . . why is this, again?" asked a dazed Frodo. Bilbo was prone to shoving off at odd moments, and suddenly, but not necessarily without a little planning, at least. Or some warning.  
  
"I think someone's been born, or has died, been married . . . something of that nature, but Paladin was quite pressing in his letter."  
  
"Shouldn't I come alone?"  
  
"You weren't invited. So, you don't have to go. Seize the opportunity, my boy! You know as well as I do that distant relations are usually a bore."  
  
Frodo smiled. "Well, I can at least help you pack?"  
  
---  
  
In all of twenty minutes Bilbo was gone, on his way to Tookland. And he was certainly correct in saying that Frodo did not want to spend time with his prodding family. Especially when they managed to form large groups of themselves. He'd quite gotten his fill in Brandy Hall.  
  
Now he and Sam were left alone with a well-sized dinner to tuck in. Dusk was falling, and was very welcome: the glare of the sun was snuffed and the darkness would eventually become so complete, that only the temperature paraded the standing fact that it was still winter.  
  
"I'll be going then, sir," said Sam, wiping his hands on dishtowel and walking toward the door.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"How do you expect me to eat all of this-assuredly wonderful-food by myself? You should at least stay and eat with me. I don't think I can finish it all, either. It'd be a waste."  
  
"Well, if you're sure, Mr. Frodo," said Sam reluctantly. He gradually made his way back into the kitchen and took a seat at the table.  
  
"Mhmm." Frodo replaced a burned-out candle by the doorway, then ended up lighting and relighting them in the hallway, too. He lit a fire in the parlour: reasoning that he could probably convince Sam to stay after dinner as well, if properly bribed with Elf-stories. Frodo was in a sensitive mood; he needed *someone* in Bag End with him. It seemed empty with even two people, but far emptier with just one. And a vague sense of distrust in the smial. Everything must have been teaming up against him, he thought.  
  
Ah well. He'd dine with someone who wasn't Bilbo and be content in the warmth of the kitchen for now. The warmth of Sam's smile, too.  
  
---  
  
-To be continued . . . (*tune in next time, same bat-time, same bat-channel . . .*)  
  
-Like? Hate? Drop me a note. Ready? Set? "Go!" 


	2. Two

-Title: Firelight  
  
-Rating: PG-13  
  
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.  
  
-Category: Romance, mild angst.  
  
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .  
  
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .  
  
---  
  
Firelight- (Chapter 2/?)  
  
The stew-whatever it was-must have been as irresistible to Sam as it had been to Frodo: there were *no* leftovers.  
  
During dinner, Frodo had found, once again, that class-conscious Sam became more akin to an *equal* when put at ease. Food, stories, and learning seemed able to do this. Casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing did not. Tonight Sam had quite warmed up to the idea of conversing with Frodo, and this didn't fall into either of the categories: it was a sort of limbo where Frodo could use some of the tools for putting Sam at ease *and* combine them with casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing. The warmth of the kitchen might also have had something to do with it. And now they were seated in low chairs on either side of the light wood table, allowing satisfaction to wash over them.  
  
"Hm . . . care for something to drink, Sam?"  
  
"No thank you, sir. I'll clean this up, though."  
  
"Oh, come now. Not anything?" asked Frodo, rewarded with a foreboding stubborn look he had learned to recognize as unconquerable. "Nothing at all?" he ventured again as Sam rose to tend to the dishes.  
  
Frodo sighed inwardly. "Sam, that can wait. I'll take care of it. You don't *have* to," he said, then added quickly upon seeing Sam's protest: "I invited you to dinner. The guest shouldn't be doing the cleaning up. Not to mention the cooking," he reasoned. "Oh, and, I'd hoped you'd stay. For . . . well, I could read something to you in Elvish, or . . ."  
  
"Sounds nice, Mr. Frodo. But, well, I really don't *mind* cleaning up," said Sam, changing the subject.  
  
"Sam. Please."  
  
"Well, at least let me get the fire going," he implored, not to be put off.  
  
"It's taken care of." Frodo watched Sam's face fall and begin to turn desperate for a full minute before chuckling quietly to himself. "Come on." He beckoned to Sam and made his way into the parlour, which was now radiating the heat of the fire.  
  
---  
  
Frodo was beginning to question himself. Surely he'd not made as much fuss when it came to keeping Sam at Bag End in the past. Why was he doing so now? Contrary to what his gut was telling him, the house would not transform into a machine that allied itself with the winter and attack him, if Sam went home. Or so he hoped.  
  
They spent about a half hour actually reading Elf-stories before dropping into more casual conversation again. Friendly. Frodo liked to think of himself as Sam's friend. And he thought that Sam did too. At this particular moment, at least, for he was opening up as he had during dinner.  
  
---  
  
*"I'm glad you decided to stay," Frodo had said.  
  
"Me too. That is, begging your pardon; I like Bag End. It's homey, even if I don't exactly live here."  
  
"Well, at least you don't feel hostile toward it," said Frodo, not entirely sure what he was talking about.  
  
But Sam seemed to think that he was, for he piped up with a tentative "Mr. Frodo?".  
  
"No, it's not really the house. I hate the winter, Sam, as I've said."  
  
"It makes you take on so. I hate it, too."*  
  
---  
  
"It *is* rather warm in here," Frodo pointed out as he mustered the strength to move a book of Elvish from the table by the couch to it's proper place on a shelf. He was a touch drowsy from the food, the firelight . . .  
  
"How long have you had the fire going, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Since dinner." Frodo sat back down.  
  
"That explains it."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Silence. When had it become so comfortable between them? Unfortunately, it was ruined for Frodo when a cooler draft wandered through the parlour.  
  
"I hate winter," he muttered to himself.  
  
"Is there anythin' you *do* like about it, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam unexpectedly.  
  
"What? Um . . . there must be . . . let me think."  
  
"Because, sir, I don't know as how you can hate it so much. Winter hasn't *done* anything to you." He sounded vaguely exasperated, though not angry.  
  
"Firelight," stated Frodo, ignoring the comment. "It looks different in the winter because it's the only warmth, I suppose. I don't know. I appreciate it more . . ."  
  
"All right, Mr. Frodo, I didn't mean to put you on the spot."  
  
"Oh, I know," said Frodo. He offered a cheery smile. "Are you sure you don't want a drink, still?"  
  
Sam debated for a moment. "Well, if you're still insistin' on it. Some tea, sir? Wine? I think there's still that 1420 in the cellar, if you want me to fetch it."  
  
The fire crackled abruptly, brightening the shadowy room for a second. In that second, Frodo noticed that Sam's hair looked very much like the fire itself. Yes. And now that he thought of it, Sam's eyes resembled . . . something. The coals? He tried to make another association to the fire and failed. These were calm mossy coals, which he wasn't sure existed. Algae covered ponds sprang to mind: deep and penetrating, coated with that knowing green. How fire and water could seem so natural together was beyond Frodo. Sam's expression was a dutiful one, and his shirt was illuminated by the fire, painting it orange. Haphazard details-all in the space of a moment that stretched.  
  
More silence. When had it become this . . . tempting?  
  
Frodo must have had a distant look in his face, he realized, for Sam had tapped his arm and grown concerned again.  
  
"Oh. Right. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Sam," he said, half whispering, half wondering why he even tried to.  
  
Sam smiled and nodded, lingered for a moment. Then he made his way out of the parlour, in the direction of the wine cellar.  
  
"I'll find some glasses," Frodo told the air, pausing and shaking his head. He transferred to the kitchen and began rummaging through more cabinets.  
  
---  
  
-To be continued . . .  
  
-Success? Failure? Drop me a line. Ready? Set? "Go!" 


	3. Three

-Title: Firelight  
  
-Rating: PG-13  
  
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.  
  
-Category: Romance, mild angst.  
  
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .  
  
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .  
  
---  
  
Firelight- (Chapter 3/3)  
  
Fire radiated a different kind of light than, say, plain candles, or the sun did. Therefore, seeing through firelight was a different kind of seeing. So, the firelight must have justified this, thought Frodo: seeing *Sam* in a whole new light, that is. Was he?-or, rather, *why* was he?  
  
Frodo continued his search for wine glasses in the kitchen. He couldn't remember looking quite *that* lengthily at Sam at any time in the past. No, he most certainly hadn't. Well, save for an instance in the previous summer that sprang to mind . . .  
  
---  
  
Sam had been gardening, happy, and perfectly in place in the scene before a daydreaming Frodo, who had taken to gazing out the window after a rush of flower-scented air had prompted him. The sun had been low in the sky, and the air had been thick with heat. Night insects sang harmonies to each other from different corners of the yard. Suddenly, a bird called.  
  
And Sam had imitated it with an accurate whistle, then laughed at himself. Another strange moment had transpired-that now, as Frodo thought of it, could be linked to the swiftly passing one that very night-in which the sun had changed to a hue as golden as Sam's tousled curls, and had tinged his well-tanned skin. He looked some ancient statue there in the garden, even *with* his sleeves rolled up, and dirt on his trousers.  
  
---  
  
An achingly loud *clink* jolted Frodo back to the present. He cringed before opening his eyes to survey the damage of a fallen crystal glass. Breathing a sigh of relief, he placed it back in the cupboard gingerly; it possessed a tiny, hairline crack along the rim.  
  
He stared obtusely at the glasses he'd fished out, and after a moment, recalled what they were for, for he heard Sam's warm voice drifting from the parlour. He rushed back.  
  
---  
  
They regarded each other wordlessly, and set to filling the wineglasses. The silence was punctuated by smiles and nods and minute apologies that somehow let it grow more languid than before.  
  
"Mm, this is quite good," said Frodo, sipping at the contents of his glass.  
  
"It is," agreed Sam simply.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I have a question for you."  
  
"All right, Mr. Frodo . . ."  
  
"And I do, in fact, know how silly it might sound, but, well . . ."  
  
"Go on, sir."  
  
"That's just it. Why the sir? Why the Mister?" It was something that had always gone against Frodo's grain, and though he understood that it was Sam's way, he toyed with the idea of teasing, in light of the . . . firelight. The more *he* felt at ease, the more Sam became uncomfortable.  
  
When the latter wouldn't answer, Frodo decided to consider it a request for clarification and said: "We're friends, aren't we? You don't have to give me titles." He laughed, and added as an afterthought in a wry tone: "It makes me feel old."  
  
"Well, I don't see as how I could stop calling you-giving you titles, sir," said Sam. "Begging your pardon, and all . . ."  
  
"Please, Sam. It's needless. I like to think of us as friends." *And I don't know how I'll survive *this* winter if I don't have one,* thought Frodo, most involuntarily. "Specifically, you," he amended-aloud, cheeks heating at his mistake. And worst of all, it didn't make any sense. *You could always blame it on your two solitary swigs of that weak wine, Frodo,* he told himself dismally.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Oh, uh, never mind. I-I'm, oh, I'm sorry," Frodo managed, annoyed with his tongue.  
  
Sam laughed a bit nervously. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo."  
  
Frodo changed the subject: "Another silly question, Sam: what colour *are* your eyes?"  
  
Sam seemed at ease again despite the rapidity of the query He relaxed back into the couch and folded his arms thoughtfully. "I couldn't say, sir. They change."  
  
"With your moods."  
  
"With my moods," Sam repeated.  
  
"Well, they do. At dinner they started out brown, and then turned more of a honey colour. Now they're greenish. And your moods keep shifting in here."  
  
"They do, sir?"  
  
"Yes," said Frodo. His tongue was so loose *now* it made him dizzy. And it wouldn't do to go betraying anything . . . not that he had anything to betray, of course. No, he *didn't* have anything . . .  
  
"Not to be forward, sir, but yours change with your moods, too. But they still *look* the same, if you take my meaning: deep and blue and . . ."  
  
Well, *perhaps* he did. "And?" he pressed.  
  
"Well, lovely, Frodo. And fair shine like stars, too, begging your pardon, in winter skies," answered Sam in a long breath.  
  
Frodo laughed to release the tension he realized he had been holding in. "I hate winter," he said, aware of the irrelevance; also aware of relief and dull heat saturating his soul.  
  
"Well?" said Sam, somehow managing to sound loud above Frodo's heartbeat.  
  
"Well what?" he whispered, beginning to understand why he tried to.  
  
"Well . . ." Sam set his glass down and shifted an inch closer. They'd already *been* sitting close before that. "Aren't you going go thank me for calling you Frodo?"  
  
Frodo couldn't tear his gaze from Sam's now that he was at ease and seemed not to mind. "Oh, um . . . no, I'm not," he decided.  
  
"Oh?" Sam *leaned* closer.  
  
Without thinking-Frodo had abandoned that pretense about five minutes previous-Frodo leaned as well until their lips brushed, and he wondered fleetingly why he hadn't been studying *those*. "Oh," he said, and then Sam's mouth was on his and he forgot about the winter, for there was heat between their mouths, and their bodies, and their hearts. So much heat, unlooked-for, but very welcome. *Yes, quite welcome,* thought Frodo when the kiss deepened and he found himself pressed against the couch.  
  
The inspiring flicker of warmth from the firelight seemed insignificant.  
  
---  
  
-The End.  
  
-Just perfect? A bit too rushed? Please, let me know, as this is my *first slash fic*, and I need feedback to help me improve. Ready? Set? "Go!" 


End file.
